


When Nothing's Left

by reichentop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cheekbones, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Fucking, Fugue Fuck, Hallucinations, Heroin, M/M, Mystery, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reichentop/pseuds/reichentop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pushing John to the edge with his addict behaviors, Sherlock uses desperate means to win back his love…and learns the true meaning of the word <i>cost</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Nothing's Left

**Author's Note:**

> For [Shamingjohnlock](http://shamingjohnlock.tumblr.com)

_It wasn’t right._

He knew it. And he wasn’t going to look in the mirror to confirm it, lest he be inundated again with the evidence. Trench coat ragged. Underneath, ribs and thin skin, with the blues and purples a map of the route to his darkest pleasure. Under the sleeves His cheekbones, the ones John used to caress and look upon in the morning light when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking, were more pronounced than ever. Or maybe his cheeks weren’t as pronounced. His hair was just greasy. He could feel that. Didn’t need a mirror for that. Didn’t.

But he did need a fix.

He would ask John to get it for him at first. For research, for evidence, anything he could think of. It was all rather tawdry, but every time John would agree. He didn’t know if John was growing suspicious, but the fact that he stopped fighting back against it at a point led him to think that he had figured it out. If not that, when they would try to make love and John’s tight little ass couldn’t get him going, couldn’t get him hard. One time, after many failed flaccid shag attempts, Sherlock had seen John in his little red pants. Christ, how that’d driven him mad. Each cheek a perfect, taut mirror image of the other, rising and falling in perfect opposition to each other beneath those tight red y-fronts. He felt the thickening, the hardening. He moved quickly, wanting to prove to his lover that he was still for him would always be for him. John accepted him, took him in, satisfied his longing. Sherlock couldn’t finish, though, couldn’t make himself come no matter how hard he tried. John tried to squirm away, _fucking christ you’re hurting me, Sherlock_ , his cock raw and John’s hole the same, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him get away, held John’s hips for hours, forced himself inside, forced himself past John’s tears and protests and screams until     He woke up, blood on the sheets, John missing. That was days ago. He wouldn’t be able to use him to mule any longer.

Sherlock took himself across 221B and back again with a stilted movement, like he was walking through his hips and his hips alone. He sought his violin for a pluck, for something to preoccupy, but remembered pawning it down the street and felt the rage inside him grow. _It’s still research_ , he told himself, _the case is almost cracked_. 

He went to John’s laptop, that red thing that made him think about the pants, that reminded him how John was all function but couldn’t help broadcasting his sexual energy. _He didn’t know he did it, no, he couldn’t be so self-aware, but it’s like every bit of him screamed_ fuck me _even if he didn’t intend it._ He relished in John’s simplicity, how a cursory look into his browser history would show how he found his heroin connection. _Seedy forums, really, with your IP out in the open like that, you’re lucky you’re so fuckable._ Sherlock saw several places, several contacts John could have chosen. He’d have to narrow it down. But then he remembered that fine white dusting that seemed to rest on the fringes of John’s scarf whenever he came back from his runs, the white powder that decidedly wasn’t china; it clung like velvet. 

Sherlock became possessed, tearing through the flat to find that scarf. Overturned chairs, couches, flipped mattresses and hollowed-out drawers. He found one of John’s hats, a ratty beanie thing, and inhaled it deeply. He put it on to let the smell linger near his face, where he felt it belonged. He finally saw the scarf out of the side of his eye, hanging from the curtain rod of the shower. He moved to take it and paused. _If you turn around and look at that mirror, you can know for sure, see what’s been evidenced,_ but then he caught another glimpse at the destruction he had left in the flat while searching for the scarf and knew that if he could manage to do that, his looks couldn’t have changed too much. He swiped the scarf and moved to the parlor to get a look at it in the sunlight.

He held it up, let the light catch it, blew on the fringe and saw the fine dust swirl around a bit, on currents invisible yet so obvious, so alive. The dust had no weight to it, really, not one that let it fall or clump in any visible way. It tasted like nothing, not even like chalk. Just grit and then gone. _Limestone dust_ , he thought. _Something that could only come from the quarry. Of course, the fucking quarry. If you wanted a bunch of white powder to not seem out of place, that’s where you’d sell it._ Luckily, John’s communiques with provisional dealers did have one participant who told him to meet him on the quarry, on Sundays or bank holidays. Sherlock looked at the calendar on John’s computer. He wrapped John’s scarf around his neck and moved for the door. 

 

_Think shorter_ , he thought, pulling the hat down further on his head. _If you think short, hunch, look a little more boxy, maybe you can hang your head and look like John._ He’d look like a regular, one sent out many times over the past few weeks, a sure £50 that the dealer wouldn’t bother to question. _The junkie isn’t the only one who needs a fix_ , he thought. 

Sherlock arrived at the quarry while the day was still misty, the sun’s light still diffuse in the day’s wayward dew. The quarry had its own dustiness to it, thin yet unmoving, and the distance in front of him was obscured. He saw rock formations, equipment, giant holes, blinking lights. There was a steel structure, no bigger than a shed, with a CCTV camera on the corner of the roof.

Sherlock moved himself into the line of sight of the camera, sure to keep his head down and his features obscured. He walked slowly towards the camera, hoping whoever was inside would get a look at him, and moved beyond its purview. _Nobody would want to have the deal on CCTV, no, it’s not that sort of thing._ He stood in wait, head down and eyes forward.

“I was thinking you’d never show again. Some people get a little too into it, I lose customers left and right, a challenging business, really.”

Sherlock looked up slightly, making sure his face was still somewhat hidden. It wouldn’t matter too much, he thought, as he couldn’t quite see the man a few meters in front of him either, but he kept it down all the same. Sherlock moved for the wad of bills in his pocket, tried to produce them, but the voice stopped him.

“Wait a tick, no quid round ‘ere innit. You know the price.” Sherlock froze. _The price?_ “Down with the trousers, that’s the drill.”

Sherlock took his hands out of his coat pockets, began to unbuckle the front of his belt and unfasten his trousers, without so much as a thought against it. _Is this what John was doing? Is this what he was doing for me?_ It had seemed so, if him having any money left now was an indication. The trousers slid down before he could even unfasten them completely, his milky pale legs further camouflaged in the mist. They looked thin, light, composed of the bones in a bird’s wing.

“The pants, too.”

He worked his thumbs under the elastic and pushed the pants down, letting his cock flop without support. He looked at himself and thought how inert the thing was, how asleep it truly was, the skin not retracted a centimeter and pursed over the head fully like a rosebud. He grabbed it at the base, gave it a quick jostle, anything to make it look more alive. Three shakes. Five shakes. The skin had retracted enough to see his piss slit. It would have to do.

“No, you don’t get to touch that. Turn the fuck around.” As he turned, Sherlock thought about the rush. About how he would do anything to get his fix. About how no matter what this man needed, Sherlock needed what he needed more. “On your knees.”

Sherlock moved to his knees and noticed the gravel was rougher than the silky dust had him thinking it would be. It dug into his bony kneecaps, but was offset by his svelte frame. _It could be worse, you know, this isn_ —

Sherlock’s face slammed against the gravel. A hand was on his neck, pushing his face deeper and further away, grating on the rocks beneath. He heard unbuckling behind him, rustling, moving along with the to and fro of the hand on his neck.

“Open up,” the voice commanded. Sherlock froze again. “I said open your fucking hole.” Sherlock felt other knees working between his ankles and let his ass drop. “Fuck no you don’t,” the voice commanded. An arm worked its way around Sherlock’s hips and pulled them higher. “You keep this ass in the air, do you hear me?” He punctuated the last four words by pushing Sherlock’s face deeper into the ground.

Sherlock thought about the release, about the numbness, about how it would all be alright when he could take what he came for back to the flat back to the tub and

A stiff burn in his ass. Sherlock cried out a little yelp and then stopped himself. It was only a thumb, he thought, short and stubby was the pressure. 

“I jammed that right in as a favor, you hear me? And I’m taking some off the top since you’re being so fucking uncooperative.”

Sherlock realized he had never bottomed before. How he never gave that part of himself to anyone before. He knew now how degrading it was. He felt the pressure behind him release and felt something else slap against his ass cheeks. It felt heavy. Slick. He could feel beads of liquid sticking and pulling where he had been slapped repeatedly. Then, a light pressure on his hole.

“I’m not going in easy. But I’m giving you a warning. And if you know what’s good for you—”

The pain. Searing, barreling through his spine and out his mouth. Sherlock whelped and moaned, launching spit into the paste of blood and limestone around his face.

“How does it feel with me inside you?”

Sherlock could feel the length of it, the pressure build, then something slapping against his balls and a quick reprieve before the pressure again. Sherlock cried for his attacker to relent. 

“Stop? You don’t call the shots here. I would spit on your hole if you fucking deserved the courtesy. But you don’t.”

His attacker fucked him relentlessly, with a rhythm and a force that made Sherlock aware of how long it had been. He could feel the skin on his face going more raw, pulling against the gravel, his cheekbones digging out a rut for the blood to pool. He craned his neck a little during the fucking, to peek under himself and get a view of what was behind. He could see his own cock, flaccid and useless, swinging like a pendulum. He couldn’t even feel it anymore. The fucking or his cock. Then, around the attackers knees, in a cloud of dust.

Red pants.

“John? JOHN!” Sherlock cried, in surprise or pleasure or in pain, he didn’t know. The hand around his neck pushed harder, tightened further, and Sherlock’s breath grew shallow.

“ _John, John,_ like you’d give a bloody toss anyway. If I was John, what would that say about you?” Sherlock thought about the last time they’d been together, the last time he’d seen John. How his face was so pained, so red and broken. How John tried to scurry away but couldn’t, either because of physical inability or because of the depths love will take a man to. 

Sherlock could feel his own cock thickening suddenly and looked again towards it. There it was, growing heavier. The head of it began to peek out beyond the skin, growing engorged, looking more and more red. It began to stand and point; in this posture, aimed directly at Sherlock’s own face.

“I’m going to fuck this nut out of you, teach you a lesson for not giving it to me before.”

The rhythm got more intense, and Sherlock could feel the pressure building with each thrust. His cock was visibly struggling, fighting against its form, throbbing with each belabored beat of his heart. Then another rush from behind, the pain of the fucking turning into an insidious pleasure, feeding the hunger and desire within him. “Fuck, give it to me,” Sherlock screamed. “Make me feel it.”

“I will never come for you again,” John said. “Never.”

Sherlock’s body convulsed and he saw his own cock burst, the sticky flying out and hitting him directly in the face. Then, aftershocks, whenever John’s cock rubbed over his insides in just the right place, spraying his face further. He could feel John pull out of him before hearing the hocking noise. John had spat on his face.

“That wasn’t come. I will never come for you again. You will never have me again,” John said. “And now you’ve been given the ultimate high to chase, Mr. Holmes.” He tossed a small plastic baggy near sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock could still see John’s feet behind the baggie. He couldn’t move, face raw and bloody on one side, plastered in his own semen and John’s phlegm on the other. 

He gazed at his love.


End file.
